


something to get off my chest

by kiyala



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2015-01-21
Packaged: 2018-03-08 12:29:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3209204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiyala/pseuds/kiyala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre is a judgmental literature elitist and Courfeyrac has a secret.</p>
            </blockquote>





	something to get off my chest

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [bahoreal](http://bahoreal.tumblr.com/)'s prompt of romance novelist Courfeyrac.

Courfeyrac stops speaking to him on a warm Saturday afternoon. Combeferre is left standing in the aisles of the bookshop, holding the novel that had been hurled at him, brows creased as his mind races to process what he's done wrong, and whether those were tears in Courfeyrac's eyes. It's entirely possible and the thought leaves Combeferre feeling cold, made colder still by the tremble of Courfeyrac's voice, by his departing words— _you judgmental prick_ —still hanging in the air.

"Oh wow, you really pissed your boyfriend off," a nearby salesclerk says, breaking the awkward silence that has descended upon the store.

"He's not—" Combeferre begins automatically, before he realises that there are more important things to be worrying about. "Yes, I did."

"Well?" she stares at him. "What are you still doing here? Go after him."

Combeferre shakes his head, knowing that going after Courfeyrac is only going to make matters worse until he's figured out what's wrong in the first place. "He's not going to appreciate that."

"Well, you better fix whatever it is _soon_. I mean, you might say he's not your boyfriend but—"

"—It's none of your business," Combeferre finishes firmly. He looks down at the book in his hands and sighs. "Can you tell me what this is?"

"Oh, _The Squires' Promise_ , that's a pretty good one. The author, Céleste Nott, hasn't written much but her work is pretty decent quality, if you're into romance."

"I'm not," Combeferre says flatly.

"She writes queer romance," the salesclerk continues smoothly, unfazed by Combeferre's interruption. "Considering that the guy you're insisting isn't your boyfriend just threw this at you and stormed off? It's like he actually threw a clue at you hoping you'd catch it."

Combeferre's eyes go wide. "…Oh."

The salesclerk smiles at him. "I'll ring it up for you."

"Wait, no, you're mistaken." Combeferre sighs heavily. "I don't read romance novels."

"Do you want me to brown paper bag it, so people can't tell? Wow, your friend was right though. You are a bit judgmental."

Combeferre flinches and pulls his wallet out with a frown. "Alright, fine. But only because he threw _this_ particular book at me."

"It has sex in it," the salesclerk warns. " _Gay male sex_. Do you think you'll be able to handle that?"

Combeferre looks her right in the eyes with a deadpan. "I can guarantee you that I probably know more about gay male sex than you do."

She laughs loudly. "I like you. Or I would, if you were a little less judgmental. Give the book a go, okay? And make up with your friend. Maybe also make out with him, it might help."

Combeferre barely resists the urge to roll his eyes. "I'd possibly like you if you weren't so intrusive. I appreciate your help, though."

She smiles. "I'll see you later. I want to know what you think of the book."

Combeferre nods, putting the book away in his messenger bag and sending a text to Courfeyrac.

_I know you don't want to talk to me right now and I'm sorry for upsetting you. Sorry for being so judgmental._

He doesn't get a reply from Courfeyrac by the time he gets home. He pretends that it doesn't bother him.

—«·»—

The book remains untouched in Combeferre's bag for a good hour. He finds it again when he's looking for his glasses case and he reluctantly picks it up, turning it over to read the back cover. The blurb says the book is about two childhood friends, who train together as squires and go their separate ways before meeting again as knights. It sounds wholly unappealing, until he thinks about the fact that Courfeyrac threw it at him, in response to Combeferre's claim that romance, as a genre, was a waste of time. He thinks about the salesclerk calling it a _clue_ and reminds himself that he's spent money on this book for a reason, not to let it live in his ever-growing pile of books waiting to be read.

He sits down with a heavy sigh and starts reading. It's a short book, compared to what he usually reads. He should be able to get through it in a couple of hours.

He expects the entire experience to be completely unpleasant. He's proven wrong from the first page. The writing style is light and much more casual than anything Combeferre was expecting. The characters are likeable enough and their relationship is well-developed. Their closeness makes him think of Courfeyrac and he tries to push it out of his mind, but he can't. Not when the characters' casual affectionate touches mirror what Combeferre and Courfeyrac do, not when every time they nearly kiss, Combeferre is chewing on his lower lip and thinking of the times he could have kissed Courfeyrac, if he thought it would be welcome.

He doesn't realise just how invested he is until the characters finally kiss and he sighs with relief, grinning down at the page. Sure, he's living vicariously through two fictional characters in a book that he never intended to read, but he's learning his lesson about judging books by their covers—or their genres.

Then he gets to the sex scene, and his immediate response is to snap the book shut. He's thinking about Courfeyrac, he realises with his cheeks burning. He's thinking of Courfeyrac as the knights tumble into bed together and he's going to be thinking of Courfeyrac if he reads the rest of it, he's going to be thinking of _himself with Courfeyrac_ and—it's not the first time he's fantasised about it, but his face is red and his heart is racing and his gut is twisting with guilt.

He puts the book down and takes a deep breath. He's not going to read the rest of it. He can't read the rest of it.

He reads the rest of it.

He gets through the sex scene and it's written well enough that his mouth goes dry, blood pounding in his head as he's torn between trying not to imagine himself and Courfeyrac as the characters, and just letting his imagination run wild. He keeps reading until the very end, until all the subplots are neatly woven together and the knights literally ride off into the sunset together. It's—nice, and oddly satisfying to read a simply, happy ending. His usual choice of books tend not to have them.

He goes back to the front of the book when he's done. He likes reading the author's acknowledgements after he's finished reading a story, to get a better idea of who wrote it. Céleste Nott is not even shy about the fact that she's using a pseudonym, thanking her agent and editor and readers, before going on to say that she'd thank her friends if they had idea that she was Céleste in the first place. It's short and simple, but then Combeferre turns to the dedication page and his heart stops.

_For Henri, who will never read this._

Combeferre blinks and reads it again. Then he reads it a third time, for good measure. Sure, there are several people out there with the same first name as him, but his mind has already jumped to a conclusion that he can't let go of.

"…Fuck."

—«·»—

"Is Courfeyrac in?"

"He said not to let you in," Marius replies, standing in the doorway. He's gripping the door so tightly that his knuckles are turning white. "I'm sorry."

"Please, Marius," Combeferre says urgently, taking half a step forward. Marius looks like he wants to back away, but he stands his ground. "This is important."

"I'm sorry, but I don't think—oh." Marius' eyes go wide when he sees the book in Combeferre's hands. " _Oh_."

"You know," Combeferre realises. "He told you, but I had no idea."

Marius purses his lips and frowns, holding Combeferre's gaze. When he speaks, his voice is firm. "Probably because he didn't want to hear you call what he did a _waste of time_."

Combeferre sucks in a sharp breath, partly in guilt and partly for the confirmation that Céleste Nott _is_ Courfeyrac. He almost managed to convince himself that he was reading into things too much, that there was no possible chance that this book would be by Courfeyrac, that it would be dedicated to _him_.

Marius sighs, stepping aside to let Combeferre in. "He's in his room."

Combeferre nods in thanks, walking over to the closed door and knocking in his usual one-long-three-short pattern before letting himself in.

"Go away," Courfeyrac mumbles, from under his pile of pillows and blankets. "I'm busy sulking."

"I'm sorry," Combeferre tells him, walking over to the edge of the bed. "I was wrong… and like you said, a judgmental prick. I probably would have gone for something a lot stronger, myself."

"Say the first part again?" Courfeyrac asks, peeking out from under his blanket to stare at Combeferre.

"I was wrong. I'll say it as many times as you want me to." Combeferre sits on the edge of Courfeyrac's bed. "I dismissed something based on my false assumptions, without even trying to learn about it. But now that I have…"

"Wait." Courfeyrac sits up, throwing his blankets off. "You… did you actually _read_ a romance novel? Is that what you're trying to say?"

Combeferre nods wordlessly, showing Courfeyrac the book that he's still holding. 

"Oh," Courfeyrac says weakly.

"You threw it at me," Combeferre mumbles. "I thought it might be important. Then I saw what it was about, and I read it, and then I saw…"

"No," Courfeyrac says, covering his face with his hands. "Oh my god, no. I didn't even—I didn't think that hard when I picked one of the Céleste books to throw at you. I didn't mean to pick…"

"The one about the childhood best friends who are in love with each other, dedicated to Henri?" Combeferre finishes for him.

"I'm sorry," Courfeyrac tells him "Like it says, I never thought you'd read it."

"I almost didn't," Combeferre says softly, putting the book down and reaching for Courfeyrac's hand. "I would have missed it entirely, out of some misguided sense of superiority that I'm ashamed of now. It was a good book, Courfeyrac. It was well-written and I _enjoyed_ it. I should never have dismissed an entire genre so easily and I'm sorry that I did. I'm sorry that I hurt you, and I'm sorry that you felt that you couldn't tell me about your writing because I'd judge you for it."

"You're not judging me now?" Courfeyrac asks quietly. "After you read the book? When it's about—about…"

"It's about what you want," Combeferre guesses, continuing when he sees the confirmation in Courfeyrac's expression. "It's about two good friends who are afraid to ask for more, even when they both want it. I'm in no position to judge you, Courfeyrac. Not when it's about what I want, too."

Courfeyrac's breath hitches. "Combeferre…"

Smiling warmly, Combeferre pulls Courfeyrac closer. "You know, I'm not all that fond of my first name. But I think I want to hear you say it, just once."

Courfeyrac watches Combeferre carefully for a moment before he finally smiles, shifting closer and placing his hand on Combeferre's shoulder. 

"I'm a little in love with you, Henri," Courfeyrac whispers, and Combeferre grins, because that's a line from the book with his name switched in.

"I love you too. I love you a lot," Combeferre quotes back, for the way it earns him a soft, delighted laugh. He rests their foreheads together and whispers, "I mean it."

Courfeyrac kisses him, framing Combeferre's face with his hands, lips soft and tentative until Combeferre kisses him back firmly. As soon as Courfeyrac is certain that Combeferre wants this too, he stops holding back. He kisses Combeferre like it's the only thing in the world that he wants to do, like it's the only thing that matters, and Combeferre is helpless against him, gravitating towards him, lost to everything else. Courfeyrac tugs and Combeferre goes, pushing him down onto the bed and chasing his lips, fingers burying themselves in Courfeyrac's hair. He wants everything that Courfeyrac is willing to give him and he says as much, voice so husky that it doesn't sound like his own, drawing a breathy moan from Courfeyrac.

"Are you guys okay— _oh_!" Marius squeaks from the doorway, making Combeferre and Courfeyrac jerk apart. By the time they sit up to look at Marius, he's turned bright red. "Sorry! I'm so sorry, it's just that you were quiet and—I'm going to go now. I was about to go out to meet Cosette anyway and I'm—rambling. I'm rambling. I'll go."

He shuts the door again before either of them can reply and soon after, they hear the front door shut as well. Combeferre and Courfeyrac look at each other for a moment before they burst out laughing.

"So this is really happening," Courfeyrac murmurs, resting his head on Combeferre's shoulder. 

"Yeah," Combeferre replies, his voice equally soft, and smiles when Courfeyrac kisses his neck. He runs his fingers through Courfeyrac's hair. "There was a girl working in the bookshop who thought you were my boyfriend. Or that you should be."

"Well then," Courfeyrac chuckles, kissing Combeferre's lips briefly. "We better not let her down."

"Exactly." Combeferre kisses Courfeyrac again. "I'd hate to disappoint her."

Courfeyrac laughs louder this time. "I really, really love you."

Combeferre smiles, deciding that he could get used to hearing Courfeyrac say that.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Secrets by OneRepublic


End file.
